


A Man and his Motorcycle

by Sunshine_Magnet



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Grumpy Cat Harry, Harley Harry, glamorous gold glitter helmet atop a lion's mane, tan boots black jeans tan gloves motorbike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1672820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshine_Magnet/pseuds/Sunshine_Magnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's convinced himself that buying a vintage Harley Davidson will give him the anonymity he craves.  He was not prepared for it to break down within the first hour of owning it.  Nor was he prepared for the pin-up model mechanic who offered to give him a ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man and his Motorcycle

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by all of the Harley!Harry photos that float around anytime Harry Styles is in LA. More specifically, inspired by the grumpy cat face he had when his bike got towed.

For the first time all day, the only thing Harry can hear is the sound of the ocean. "Sonofabitch," he mutters as the bike rolls to a stop. To his left, rocks; to his right, water. He kicks the metal stand with his boot, allowing it to meet the concrete before leaning with the bike to the side. He shifts his weight onto his toes, lifting off of his seat before settling back down. He removes his tan riding gloves, affixing them with velcro to one of the handles before tugging on the chin strap of his helmet.

"Goddammit!" He pulls the black helmet off, revealing a blue bandana headband wrapped tightly around his forehead. He yanks at it, too, shaking his brown curls out as a dog might after a bath. He tosses the helmet on the ground by his foot, his fingers running through his wild hair before standing up. He stretches his long limbs briefly before hitching his leg over the bike.

The urge to kick his 1978 Vintage Harley is strong, but Harry resists. He checks his iPhone, tucked safely in his jeans pocket. 

He's owned the piece of shit for less than an hour and he's already stranded on the side of Highway 1. He glances at the water to his right, trying center himself and remembers to take a mental picture, as he tries to do frequently throughout his day. Mindstagramming, he famously calls it when his camera isn't handy.

The idea for a motorcycle came to him just a few days ago and it sounded like a good one. A friend bought one at an auction and couldn't stop waxing poetic about how awesome it was. Harry was easily swayed. It sounded quite lovely - a great way to be anonymous and go wherever he wants - and with a helmet on, he practically blends in wherever he goes.

Except for right now, when he stands here on the side of Highway 1 with a broken down bike somewhere between Malibu and Santa Monica.

He pulls his iPhone out of his pocket and swipes the screen, dialing Cal. He shifts impatiently in his boots, waiting for him to answer.

"Bro, what do I do? Who do I call?" Harry's voice is laced with annoyance; it's the fastest Cal has ever heard Harry speak and he chuckles.

"So, you're saying it won't start?"

Harry shakes his head, as if Cal can see him. "Didn't you just?" Oh, so annoyed now, Harry takes a deep breath. "Nah. Tried. It won't click over," he says slowly, spitting out every word, eyeing the bike as if it will suddenly come back to life. "And to top it all off, I think I have a flat. What the hell?"

Cal out-right laughs. He's never heard Harry this worked up and could count the times he's sworn on one hand. "Dude. You need to look up Triple A. They'll send a tow truck to you," Cal suggests. "Make sure you tell them you need a flatbed since you have a motorcycle. They'll take the bike to a shop and get you back home."

"Cool. Thanks, man." Harry googles this Triple A and phones in his request for help. With twenty estimated minutes to sit and wait, he leans on the seat of his broken down bike and tries to wait patiently.

Across town, Kat is waiting for the fresh coat of "I'm Not a Waitress" to dry on her nails.

"Kitty Kat, we have a bike coming in. ETA is 20 minutes," the dispatch crackles over the speaker set-up in her office. 

"What kind? What's the diagnosis?" She looks out to the shop floor, taking a mental inventory of the mechanics still on the clock.

"1978 Harley dead on the side of Highway 1 with a flat," the voice chuckles. "Apparently the guy just bought it. May need a ride home."

"Bring him in and we'll figure it out," she instructs, checking her desktop calendar. "Jake is here for another couple of hours, so he may be able to get to it tonight if you hurry."

"And if traffic doesn't suck," the voice answers over the two-way radio. "See you in a bit, sweet cheeks."

She groans. "Will...." she chides, hating the nickname the guys have bestowed her with. The blessing and the curse of being a female in an all-male environment - sexual harassment on the daily. She rolls her eyes and blows on her fingernails for good measure. The polish will likely be chipped before the end of the evening, but that's ok - its the little things that help keep her femininity in check as co-owner of the little Santa Monica mechanic shop.

She hears the truck before she sees it, the rumble of the engine crossing San Vicente Boulevard and into the yard. Will honks the horn, formally alerting Kat to their arrival. She pushes the front door open, eager to get a glimpse of the bike. It's not often they have such a cool piece of machinery in the shop and her fingers twitch with the opportunity to maybe work on it some.

If Jake is busy, she reminds herself.

Since assuming more responsibility over the shop last spring, Kat has turned into more of an office manager than mechanic. Her love of classic cars brought her to this male dominated field and she was quickly deemed successful and had a faithful client base. 

That, and her clients loved to check out her latest toys - at the moment, a 1957 Thunderbird sat in the parking lot like a bright red beacon.

The white flat-bed truck rolls to a stop in front of her, Will jumping out of the truck first. It is when the passenger door opens that Kat's breath hitches, her pulse quickening.

Oh my.

The passenger steps out, looking around. "I'm sorry?"

Kat tries to smile. "Yes?"

He looks her up and down and smiles, his eyes focusing on the ground again. "I thought you said something," he shrugs.

Shit. She must've said what she was thinking out loud. She immediately chastises her brain. "Oh no, you're fine. Will says you're having a problem with your bike," she rattles, trying to act professionally.

He shrugs again, fingers running through that mess of hair on his head. "I guess that's what I get for buying it off the internet."

She giggles and reminds herself that she doesn't giggle. Ever.

She tries to calm herself, her hormones suddenly taking notice of this lanky, young man who has stepped into her personal space. He looks familiar, but she can't place him. She takes in his appearance starting with his feet - tan suede ankle boots far too expensive for her blood, black jeans with a patch sewn on the left knee, a white v-neck t-shirt exposing some ink on his chest, covered with a red and green plaid flannel. 

His jeans are tight and she swoons, slightly.

She gets stuck on his face. Green eyes. Green like the sea glass she used to pick up on the beach when she was a kid. Pink lips, almost as if he's been eating cotton candy or something else equally sweet. She licks her lips unconsciously, blinking when she hears him cough.

"I'm Harry," although with his British accent, it sounds more like "Harreh" and it is all Kat can do to keep from melting into a puddle at his feet.

She's always had a thing for accents.

"Boss lady? Jake still here?" Will's question breaks her from her trance and Kat shakes her head. 

"He's here, but he's swamped with another bike." She turns to look at Harry. "Jake's our certified Harley mechanic, and he's the only one I'd really trust to work on your bike," she explains, fingers twitching. She'd love to take a look at it, but she's not dressed for it today in her tight black shirt tucked into a red pencil skirt. Her leopard print platform heels complete her pin-up girl look for the day.

Harry groans. "So, how long will it take? I'll need to arrange for a ride."

"I can arrange a ride for you," Kat all but chokes, double entendre not entirely unintended. "By the way, I'm Kat," she introduces, shaking his hand. "Why don't you come inside for a minute and I'll take a look at the schedule."

She leads him into the office; his eyes roam from her ass to her legs. Her heels make her legs look elongated; Harry wonders how they'd look wrapped around him.

On his bike, he clarifies to his perverted brain.

Indeed.

Will offloads the broken down motorcycle, walking it into the shop; Kat gestures for Harry to have a seat in front of her desk. "I'd prefer to stand, if you don't mind," he says, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets.

How he fits them in there, she has no idea, but she watches anyway and nods. "Suit yourself. It looks like Jake will be able to get to your bike first thing in the morning. We already have a tire here to replace your flat," she says, penciling notes on her deskpad. "I'll have to give you a ride, tonight. Will's officially off."

Harry looks around the small office, watching Will walk back to the big truck and hoist himself inside before starting the loud motor. Satisfied it's safe, he reaches up for the draw of the blinds and twists, ensconcing her office into darkness. Kat feels her lungs tighten as she struggles to breathe.

"Um," she stutters, fingers immediately reaching for her neck. The skin beneath her fingers is warm to the touch. "Harry?"

When he turns to face her, his green eyes flash with a feral look. "He called you Boss," he states, taking a step closer. "This place yours?"

She swallows and nods, words escaping her. He musses his hair, attempting to smooth it to one side before his hand returns to his pocket.

"It's nice," he says, another step closer to her. "So, how about that ride?"

She clears her throat nervously. "My car's outside," she whispers, not sure where her voice went.

Harry chuckles. "While that's nice, I think you and I both know that's not the kind of ride either of us were talking about." He reaches for her hand at her chest, his long fingers wrapping gently around her wrist before pulling her flush against him. "Nothing's hotter than a powerful woman who knows cars, motorcycles, and has legs like yours." He bends slightly, breath warm on her chest now, long fingers trailing a line from her knee to her hip.

"Harry, I--" Her protest dies when Harry crashes his lips into hers. She inhales sharply, eyes fluttering closed, her own hands grabbing onto that awful plaid shirt, her mouth betraying her brain and opening to his kiss. His hands wrench her skirt up around her hips, pushing her onto the edge of her desk.

"Yeah," he groans, stepping back to take her in. "These have to go," he says, hooking a finger into her panties and sliding them down her legs. Long fingers clench the lace in front of his face; he inhales. "I'm keeping these," he says, shoving them into his front pocket.

"Oh shit," Kat whispers, eyes wide. "Um, ok?" She feels breathless, dizzy. She tries to focus.

"You have one chance to stop this," Harry murmurs, standing between her legs. She sits stock-still, frozen. He smirks at her, snapping her out of her trance as he steps closer, his tongue darting out to a spot just below her ear. "Your chance is gone, Boss."

Her hips involuntarily move forward, searching. He reads her cues, fingers spreading her knees apart, pulling her closer to him. She gasps; he's hard, rutting into her. "Oh my God," she sighs, allowing herself to just feel.

His tongue explores her skin, his fingers teasing her clit. She reaches for his belt, unfastening the buckle and his jeans, pushing them down his hips. Harry steps back, shrugging out of the flannel shirt and toeing his pants off. "You're overdressed," he smirks, reaching for her waistband and pulling her shirt off, tossing it on her desk chair. He slides her bra straps off her shoulders in what seems like one simultaneous move; once exposed, her nipples harden painfully. He licks one, then the other, pulling gently with his teeth.

"Fuck," she curses. "Will you?"

The smirk returns. "Fuck you? Oh yeah. I will." Her legs wrap around his hips, pulling him in. He pushes in fast, impaling her on his cock. She cries out, hands holding onto the edge of her desk. One hand plays with her clit, rubbing the bundle of nerves; the other teases her tits, alternating attention from one to the other. His eyes are fixated where they are joined; his hips pushing in, out, in, out. She gasps when he pulls all the way out.

"Stand up," he murmurs, turning her to face the desk. "Hold on tight," he says, slamming into her from behind. Fingers digging into her hip, playing with her nipples; she feels him everywhere. She opens up, putting one leg on the edge of the desk. "Holy shit," he groans, pumping faster.

"Oh God, yes," she hisses, reaching down, feeling him slide in and out. She teases her clit, heat building and threatening to explode. She clenches her muscles around him, milking him as she comes, a moan dying on her lips. He continues to fill her, pumping his hips, fingers threatening to bruise her under his grip. Once, twice, three more pumps and he comes with a roar, filling her.

Both stay still, chests heaving, attempting to get their breathing under control. He slides out, stepping quickly back into his jeans and zipping them up. Kat stands, fidgeting with her bra straps to cover herself, smoothing her skirt down, legs shaky, and turns to face him, flushed.

"Well, that was," she says in a voice foreign to her ears. She sounds raspy. 

She sounds like she's just been fucked.

Harry takes in her appearance, cupping her jaw and kissing her soundly. "Yeah."

"Yeah," she nods, a slight smile on her face. "So, um, I still owe you an actual ride to your house." She giggles.

His eyebrows raise. "Oh? Another ride? So soon?"

She straightens her skirt and attempts to give him a bitch-brow, but he's just so ridiculously good looking, she fails. "Harry."

"Take me for another ride, Boss. Let's go." He watches as she slips her shirt back on. "Actually, better make that two. You'll have to bring me back tomorrow."

"But," she starts to protest. What?

"I'm kidnapping you for the night. Come on." He takes her hand and leads her out of her office.

When she returns the next morning wearing the same clothes from yesterday, the mechanics are smart enough not to say a word. Will does, however, leave an issue of BOP magazine on her desk with a sticky note that says "Is he even old enough to drive?"

Kat smiles and checks on his bike first thing, sending him a text. "Come by at noon and give me a ride."

He's there five minutes early and she takes a two-hour lunch.


End file.
